A Good Wife Read online

Now that the idea of being a single parent was no longer the terrifying spectre it had been just a year before, I could relax and really enjoy my little family. Many evenings, the girls and I would hunker down in front of the TV with a big bowl of popcorn to watch one of their favourite movies. Or on weekends when the girls weren’t at Ahmed’s, we might all hop into the minivan for an impromptu drive to Niagara Falls or Wasaga Beach. Aisha continued to be my rock, Sonia my entertaining and lovable baby girl.

  Everyone in my old community referred to us as “a broken family.” Yet the girls and I had never felt so complete and happy before.

  CHAPTER 17

  FREEDOM

  One December morning in 2012, walking across the campus, I received an email. Ruby Mack, the Department of Economics academic advisor, was inviting all students to apply for the John H. Moss Scholarship for graduate studies. The award of Moss Scholar went to the most outstanding graduating student across all three University of Toronto campuses, based on academic excellence, leadership and community work. A few minutes later, I was knocking on Ruby’s door. She smiled as soon as she saw me. “I knew you’d be in,” she said.

  I took a seat across from her. “I just came in to ask you if you think I meet the criteria. Do you think I have a chance?”

  “Why not?” said Ruby. “Your grades couldn’t be better. You had leadership experience through the TA position. And you do so much volunteer work. You’re a great candidate!”

  I could tell Ruby was rooting for me and that stirred hope. If she had faith in me perhaps I should have faith in myself too.

  The application required a written personal statement about the student’s academic and career goals. Ruby offered to review whatever I wrote. A number of my professors graciously provided the required reference letters. I submitted all the documents and waited, hardly daring to hope that I’d hear back.

  In early January, I got an email telling me that I had made it to the final phase. I was thrilled—but also apprehensive. The six shortlisted applicants were required to undergo a daunting panel interview. Mine would be on February 6th, in the last slot. The chair was John Rothschild, then the CEO of Prime Restaurants, Canada’s largest restaurant chain. The other committee members were likewise accomplished—company presidents and CEOs. Reading their bios on a computer at Robarts Library, I was both filled with admiration and terrified by the thought of facing them.

  During the past couple of years, I’d learned to advocate for myself—something I had known how to do as schoolgirl but had largely forgotten in my married life. Writing the personal statement had required me to think about the future, but now I had to be prepared to answer any questions the judges might throw at me, including ones about my relatively late-in-life, stop-and-start undergraduate attendance.

  The interview took place at the main campus, in downtown Toronto. I arrived a full hour early, finding a spot to park the minivan. It was the first week of February, and as soon as I turned off the engine, cold air began to seep into the car. I sat behind the steering wheel, shivering, trying to calm my nerves. I had a copy of my personal statement in my purse. I took it out and read it. Then I read it again. And again. I was trying to beat back the needles of doubt. I was trying to remind myself of who I was now. And who I wanted to be. Eventually I got out of the car and walked towards the interview room.

  A few minutes later, I was taking a seat at a large square conference table in an elegant, window-lined room. I looked at the ten awards committee members facing me. Their expressions were friendly, and John Rothschild started the interview with some generous words about my academic record, which helped me breathe a bit easier.

  One of the first questions was what leadership meant to me. I had been a TA and run some classes and groups at the Afghan Women’s Organization, but these were not the experiences I wanted to stress. Instead I told them that I thought the most powerful type of leadership was leading by example. As a mother, I was striving to do that. I wanted my daughters to know that they had a right to every opportunity in the world. I remembered Cherri’s words.

  “I’m trying to show them that through my actions.”

  One of the next questions made me pause. “Who is the person who has taught you the most? Who has been the most influential?”

  I was about to say my father, but I stopped myself. If I were being honest, I had to admit that wasn’t true. I took a deep breath and forced myself to answer.

  “My husband,” I said.

  I glanced around the table. Face after face registered shock and disbelief. In my personal statement, I had mentioned briefly that it had taken me many years of struggle to get to university because I had wed as a teen and been stuck in an abusive marriage. My answer had clearly struck everyone as bizarre.

  “My husband taught me how not to treat people,” I explained. “He showed me what I didn’t want to become. In a way, he taught me how to be strong because he forced me to be strong. Because of what he put me through, what I had to rise above, I learned what I was capable of.”

  While I wouldn’t wish my experience on anyone else, I might never have known the truth of my strength or discovered its dimensions if Ahmed had not driven me to it.

  The final question, however, was the one that unnerved me. “With everything that you’ve faced, what is it that keeps you going?”

  The cool, professional facade I’d been trying to maintain through the long round of questions started to crumble. I could feel my throat constrict. When I started to speak, my voice was wobbly.

  “Every day, I feel I should give up,” I admitted, “but every day I make myself get up and keep going. I need to respect myself and my dreams, to live with dignity and freedom. But it’s more than that. I keep going because of my daughters. I want things to be easier for them. I want them to be able to pursue their goals and their dreams. Everyone should have the right to do that.” With that, I thanked the judges for their time and for the opportunity they had given me.

  * * *

  All the way home in the car, I played the interview over in my mind, thinking of better ways I might have expressed my ideas or other things I should have said. I prepared myself for disappointment. When I got into the apartment, I put my phone away and told myself not to think about whether or not a call would be coming.

  But only a few minutes later, my phone was ringing. I picked it up with a trembling hand and sat on the edge of the bed. Aisha and Sonia squeezed in beside me. Celina Caesar-Chavannes, one of the committee members, was saying hello.

  “Are you sitting down?” she asked. And then: “Congratulations. You are our winner this year!”

  I burst into tears of disbelief and happiness and thanked her profusely.

  “You’ve struggled so much, Samra,” Celina continued. “It’s time to get recognition. You deserve this more than anyone.” Then she asked to speak to my daughters. I put the phone on speaker mode. “You should be very proud of your mother,” she told them.

  By the time I hung up, Aisha and Sonia were both jumping up and down on the bed in giddy celebration. I dropped my phone on the bedside table, climbed onto the mattress and joined them, the three of us bouncing and laughing and crying until we collapsed in a heap, thoroughly dizzy with joy.

  * * *

  The ceremony was held on April 11, 2013. Before Aisha, Sonia and I left the apartment for the event, I examined myself in the mirror. I was wearing a modern black-and-white dress. I had straightened my hair and applied my makeup meticulously. I looked nothing like the scared and shabby student I had been just a few years ago.

  The award came with the biggest financial scholarship at the university, but in all honesty I had never really thought about the money. More than anything, I wanted to be recognized. I was growing more self-assured by the day, but I thought winning would be a powerful reminder that I could make a success out of my life—and that I truly belonged in graduate school. Indeed, the woman in the mirror looked as if she could take on the world.


  Standing with the girls in the beautiful Great Hall of Hart House, just before the ceremony was about to start, I let a gentle pride wash over me. To think that I not only belonged in grad school but that I belonged here, in this prestigious place. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was John Rothschild.

  “I didn’t want to miss this. I wanted to congratulate you in person, Samra,” he said.

  A few minutes later, my name was called for the award presentation. During my acceptance speech, I thanked Aisha and Sonia for being my inspiration, for giving me courage and strength. But I also acknowledged so many others.

  “I want to thank all of my professors, friends and mentors who have supported me,” I said. “I would not be here without you.” I truly meant it.

  * * *

  Two months later, I attended the University of Toronto Mississauga campus graduation reception. Here I received another gratifying validation: the award for the top student in economics. As I headed to the stage to receive that award, I took Aisha’s and Sonia’s hands so they would come with me. Words of thanks were not enough. After all, these awards were just as much theirs as mine.

  At the end of that ceremony, my friend Farah and an older woman came over to where Aisha, Sonia and I were standing. Farah congratulated me and introduced her mother. Ilmana was a columnist for the Express Tribune, a prominent Pakistani-Canadian online newspaper. She asked if she could write an article about me. I had been interviewed for a few articles about the Moss Scholarship, so I didn’t feel as awkward as I might have even a few months earlier. I would be happy to talk with her.

  “But I want the whole story,” Ilmana said. “Would you be willing to talk about everything, including what happened in your marriage?”

  I felt the colour drain from my face. “No, no,” I said quickly. “It’s so embarrassing. I’d be ashamed.”

  I could see Aisha staring at me, a question on her face.

  “Well, I understand,” said Ilmana, “but imagine how many women you will be helping, women who may be suffering the way you were. Please think about it.”

  I nodded, and Farah and Ilmana moved on.

  Back home, twelve-year-old Aisha took me to task. “If every woman thinks it’s too shameful to talk, how is anything going to change? I think you should do it. If anyone can do it, it’s you.”

  I gave Ilmana a call and agreed to tell my story.

  On June 10, 2013, Aisha, Sonia and I drove to Toronto to attend my convocation ceremony. Just before we left the apartment, my phone buzzed with a Facebook notification. An old friend from Pakistan had posted the Express Tribune article on my Facebook wall. “So proud to call you my friend,” she had written above it.

  I froze. Now it hit me that my private life was truly exposed to the world. I tried to put that thought out of my mind as I drove into Toronto. It was time to get my degree.

  * * *

  By the time I was standing in the wings of Convocation Hall, waiting for my name to be called, I’d forgotten all about the article. I couldn’t quite believe I was here. I thought back to all the times I had pictured this, had pretended that the mortarboard was on my head, the gown draping over my shoulders. All the times I had walked around my bedroom, pretending that I was moving towards a university provost offering a hand and a diploma. And now it was better than I had ever imagined. As I crossed the stage, I could hear Sonia and Aisha hooting and hollering from the audience. I wished so much that they could have been joined by my mother, my sisters, my father. Papa had always said, “One day, my daughter will be a top student at a top university.” If only he could have seen his prediction come true.

  But I was too excited to be truly sad. I was thirty-one years old, and I had been waiting for this moment for almost my whole life. Tears were tracing down my cheeks as a diploma was placed in my outstretched hand. I floated off the stage.

  Out on the lawns surrounding Convocation Hall, my friends and the girls threw their arms around me. We were surrounded by hundreds of other students and their families. Congratulations were ringing through the air. I didn’t want this to end. But what I didn’t realize was that another sort of recognition was coming my way. And this public attention would help me to make a difference.

  * * *

  Aisha, Sonia and I returned to the apartment, happy but tired. The girls settled down in front of the TV. I went into the bedroom and pulled out my laptop, logging onto my Facebook account. My mouth dropped open when I looked at my page. Messages. Hundreds of messages. Thousands of messages. From all over the world. From people I didn’t know. The Express Tribune article had gone viral.

  Congratulations, many of them said. Thank you for breaking the silence.

  I spent a long time in front of my laptop, reading one message after another. But one stopped me in my tracks. It was from a young woman named Amna who lived about an hour from me. She asked if we might talk on Skype. When we connected a few days later, I was struck by the familiarity of her story. She’d been raised in Canada and had attended university here while living at home. After graduation, her parents took her back to Pakistan and pressured her into an arranged marriage. Almost immediately, the abuse began—both by her husband and by the mother-in-law she was now forced to live with. After a number of years, she became pregnant and fled to Canada to have the baby. But it had been agreed that once the baby was born, she would sponsor her husband so he could join her. She was now back with her parents and a new baby, terrified by the prospect of her husband’s arrival in Canada, cowed by his long-distance threats and bullying.

  She showed me some of the emails and texts he had been sending her. I shuddered at the familiarity: haramzadi, bitch, whore, you will never survive without me, you will be damaged goods.

  Despite everything, the thought of leaving him—and of the social stigma that would bring—terrified Amna. She was certain she would never survive on her own. As she talked, I couldn’t help thinking, This was me five years ago. I can’t let this happen to her.

  “I want to see you,” I told her. “In person.”

  The next day I drove out to her home in Waterloo to talk to her and her mother. I poured my heart out, telling them all the things I had learned in counselling: abuse is never okay; it’s never your fault; you deserve better; raising children in an abusive home is damaging. I pointed out that she had her whole life ahead of her, and there was no point in staying in a bad marriage.

  “Just because something bad happened doesn’t mean your entire life has to be bad. You deserve so much better. I had no education. You do. I had no friends. You do. My kids were older. Yours is a newborn who won’t remember any of this. If I can do it, so can you.”

  I told her I would go with her to the lawyer’s office, and that she could call me any time of the night or day. “I’ll be there for you,” I assured her.

  I was holding her hand, and she was crying while I talked, but three weeks passed before I heard from her again. When I did, she told me she had made a decision.

  “Samra, I had lost myself in the midst of all of this,” she said. “When I met you, I found myself again. I’m filing for divorce and enrolling myself in a master’s program.”

  In the years to come, she would become a good friend and I would watch with excitement and pride as she got her master’s degree and then a great job. At one point she said to me, “Samra, you saved my life.”

  “No,” I replied. “You saved your life. I just showed you it was possible.”

  * * *

  The Express Tribune article blew my world apart—but in a good way. Many of the messages that poured in from that and other small media appearances encouraged me. They made me feel that I was not alone in my journey; that I was, instead, part of a community of survivors and supporters. What’s more, they showed me that I had a part to play in this community. Telling my story could, as Ilmana had assured me, help others. In a few more years, I would figure out a way to make the most of that.

  That summer was filled with of al
l sorts of new beginnings. After I graduated, feeling more confident about my finances because of the scholarship, I found a bright, spacious condo to rent and moved out of campus housing. I’d believed the golf-course house was the first place I could genuinely call my own, but that had been a delusion. Both the apartment and now this condo were true homes, where there was no shadow of abuse. Homes where my girls could grow up happy and free.

  While the condo cheered me, a new connection gave me an even greater sense of possibility. After I won the Moss Scholarship, I had emailed John Rothschild to express my gratitude. I asked if we could meet for coffee so I could thank him in person. Instead, we went out for breakfast, and at the end of our meal John asked if he could do anything to help me. There was so much I could learn from him. Without a second thought I blurted out, “Would you be my mentor?”

  “You’ve got it,” he said.

  After that breakfast I met with John every month, as I continue to do. He has become a trusted friend, and his academic and career advice have been invaluable.

  In those early months of grad school, he encouraged me to think about pursuing a career after my MA rather than a PhD. He agreed that financial independence should be my primary goal. Further, he encouraged me to connect with other people in the business world. My graduate advisor put me in touch with Halina von dem Hagen, a senior executive at Manulife. When I met her, she hugged me and said, “The worst is over, Samra. It’s only up from here.” She offered to contact other executives for me. One of those people was the head of Asset Based Lending at the Royal Bank of Canada, who interviewed me in December 2013 and then offered me a part-time job right away, with a full-time position once I graduated with my master’s of economics in the spring of 2014. The day I walked into my own little office at RBC, wearing my brand-new Banana Republic business suit and clutching a box of business cards with my name on them, I could barely believe what my life had become.

  I couldn’t help thinking of Ahmed’s taunt: “Now you think you’re some kind of hotshot!” Yes, I thought, laughing to myself as I pinned photos of Aisha and Sonia to the cubicle walls, I guess I am.